


Hello, I Love You

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So I have it on good authority that werewolves can get high,” Stiles says, throwing himself down on the couch next to Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> So, I speed-wrote this one day before dinner because I was feeling hella nostalgic for writing characters who smoked reefer. It was just an excuse to write a scene where Derek and Stiles got high out of their mind and had sloppy sex, but unfortunately I got dragged out of the house for some reason and haven't been able to pick this back up since then. Which is sad, because I didn't even really get to the smoking part. But I'm sick of seeing this in my WIP folder, so it's getting posted. It may or may not get another chapter added to it if I get my groove back.

“So I have it on good authority that werewolves can get high,” Stiles says, throwing himself down on the couch next to Derek. It’s a nice day, the dregs of a late summer breeze drifting through the open window, and Stiles is feeling good. Real good. He’s had a low-grade buzz going for him since he finished off the half-smoked joint earlier that he's been hoarding away for a rainy day, and being out here — walking through the preserve with the late August sun on his back had seemed like a good idea at the time.   
  
And it was. It was the best idea, because lazy walks in the woods, no running for his life or anything, are the best fucking thing in the world, second only to having a truly good fuck while well and truly blazed. Setting eyes on the Hale house and realizing that Derek would be there — that yes, that was the sound of a lawn mower in the backyard, which meant _someone_ must be mowing, and if that someone wasn’t Derek he would eat his hat — made it even better.  
  
So he’d let himself in, meandering around the kitchen and draining glass after glass of cool, refreshing water until he heard the telltale slam of the back door.  
  
“And whose authority would that be?” Derek asks coolly, raising a single eyebrow in response. He looks a bit like a wet dream come to life, even if he is a bit rank, his tanktop clinging everywhere and what look like _gym shorts_ sticking to his muscular thighs. Stiles blinks and slowly drags his eyes away from all that bare, sweaty skin.   
  
Derek’s still staring at him, clearly waiting for an answer, so Stiles just grins and handwaves the annoyed pinch between Derek’s brows. “Cora,” he says, like whatever. If Derek didn’t want Stiles texting his sister, he wouldn’t have given him her number.  
  
“Cora,” Derek repeats, eyebrow arching even higher.   
  
Stiles grins even wider. He makes a show of cupping a hand around his ear. “There an echo in here?”  
  
Derek sighs, running a lazy hand over his kneecap. Stiles tries not to track the movement with his eyes, but he’s associated weed with sex ever since his lab partner back at Stanford got him high in a janitor’s closet between classes and sucked him off. It’s a thing. A thing that he is very okay with, because seriously. He might have cooled it when it came to the recreational drug use once he graduated college, but it’s not like he can’t still appreciate the occasional joint and the accompanying low grade simmering arousal.  
  
Oh shit, Derek’s talking.  
  
“—ou felt the need to come fact check?”  
  
Stiles blinks again. “What?”  
  
That exaggerated eye roll is totally a Hale thing. Even Malia, who hadn’t even been raised a Hale had that eye roll down to a tee. Maybe it’s genetic.  
  
“I _said_ ,” Derek whispers waspishly, enunciating very carefully. “So you felt the need to come fact check?”  
  
“Asked,” Stiles corrects. Derek glares at him. “What? You _asked_ a question, you didn’t just _say_ it.”  
  
When Derek’s glare doesn’t let up one bit, Stiles sighs, melting back even further into the couch. “And naw, dude, I felt like taking a walk.”  
  
“And you just happened to end up here?”  
  
“Well, it is the place I most often end up when strolling through the woods. At this point it’s probably ingrained into my very being. When in the woods, it’s to the big bad wolf’s house you go.”  
  
“Pretty sure that’s not how Little Red Riding Hood went.”  
  
“Hey,” Stiles puts in mildly. “Just because I like the color red doesn’t mean I’m Little Red. I could have been referring to Christmas songs.” At Derek’s blank look, Stiles snorts. “You know, over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go?”  
  
“That song has absolutely nothing to do with wolves.”  
  
Stiles shrugs. “So I’m mixing my genres a bit. Big deal. Now— fact or fiction: can werewolves actually get high or is your sister just yanking my chain? Because if you guys can, you have been holding out on us big time, hombre.”  
  
“We can,” Derek admits after a long minute, shifting so that he’s pressed more solidly against the arm of the couch. The change in position nudges their knees together, which is just. Awesome. “If the weed’s strong enough.”  
  
“So no shit middies for you, huh?” Stiles says, throwing his head back and laughing, bright and clear. “Hah! I knew you had to have indulged!”  
  
Derek drags his gaze very slowly back over to Stiles, away from whatever the hell was so interesting in the far corner of the living room, and smirks when their eyes meets. “I spent the latter half of my teenage years in New York. With my older sister. Of course I spent some of it getting high.”  
  
“But you haven’t smoked in awhile, have you?” Stiles says, cocking his head. It’s not really a question. Sure, Derek’s been way more zen since he gave up his alpha powers all those years ago, but if he was getting high on the regular, there’s no way he’d still be so… Derek.  
  
“No,” Derek tells him. “I haven’t.”  
  
Stiles looks at him, taking in the green grass stains up and down his calves and the sweat still drying on his skin. Derek’s always looked good. It’s a fact of life. Even when he was dating Malia, that attraction to Derek had been there, simmering just below the surface.  
  
They’ve come a long way since then. Stiles has gone off to college, graduated, and come back home. He’s had girlfriends and boyfriends, fuckbuddies, and one night stands. Stiles knows himself better now — he’s confident; is proud of his good qualities and content with the bad — and more importantly, he knows what he wants.  
  
And he wants Derek. _Has_ wanted him even, since he was sixteen years old and flailing into the front of a police cruiser.  
  
Now though, Stiles realizes, watching the way Derek’s eyes flit to and from his until they settle in the general vicinity of his mouth, he might actually be able to _have_ him. So he grins, a little sloppy, a little silly, and pulls the battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shaking out the joint he’d stowed there before he left the house.  
  
“So,” he says. “You wanna?”  
  



End file.
